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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26798134">all that is left behind</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainskellington/pseuds/captainskellington'>captainskellington</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:21:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,157</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26798134</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainskellington/pseuds/captainskellington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>‘Well, if Goosebumps has taught me anything,’ Martin begins, and Jon barks out a laugh that catches them both by surprise.<br/>‘If Goosebumps had really taught you anything, you probably would have stayed very far away from me,’ Jon retorts.</em>
</p><p>Something appears in Martin's bag, and they stumble across a house from a poet's nightmare.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>all that is left behind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is canon divergent but DOES take place in the context of season five, so don't read before TMA160!!<br/>Warning - Martin receives a slashing injury to his wrist, it isn't described in detail but it is in there.<br/>Also please drop me a message if you want me to add any more warning tags, I am very rusty (ha) with fic posting.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There is something… not quite right about Martin’s bag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not necessarily in a bad way. Like, it hasn’t tried to bite his hand off or anything - </span>
  <em>
    <span>yet </span>
  </em>
  <span>- but given the circumstances of the world they currently inhabit, that in itself may make it something to be wary of.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘A lot has been going on,’ Jon reassures him, gratefully wrapping a bandage around the cut on his hand. It’ll probably fester anyway, given the glass he stumbled onto was in a corrupted plague village, but at least this way neither of them have to look at the wound. ‘You probably just don’t remember packing them.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin shakes his head slowly, but he could very well be right. It feels like years since they left the safehouse, decades since the Institute. Even then, anything he threw into his bag in the safehouse could have been masquerading in a different shape when he first picked it up. What matters is, they have bandages. They look like bandages, they feel like bandages, and if they’re convincing enough for Jon, well… that’s good enough for Martin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>swear </span>
  </em>
  <span>that they hadn’t been in there the last time he checked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dips back into the bag with a frown, wondering what else is in there. His fingers brush two bottles of water; still almost full, their long trek a thirstless one. He tosses one to Jon, who laughs and says ‘can’t hurt’ before taking a long swallow. Into the bag again, and there’s a tape recorder, which Martin scoops out and places on the ground just like you would an errant bug that has made its way into the house. He half expects it to grow legs and scuttle away, but thankfully it doesn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘We should get going,’ Jon says, gently. Not an order, just a suggestion. He holds out the spare length of bandage and Martin takes it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘...how did you cut that to size?’ he asks, eyeing the ragged edge of the roll. Jon grins, then sticks his tongue out underneath a particularly sharp canine. Martin huffs a laugh. ‘Animal. You’re an animal.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Yeah, well, says a lot about your taste in men,’ Jon mutters, getting to his feet and stretching his uninjured hand to help Martin up. When Martin doesn’t take it, he looks down, concerned. ‘I was only joking. I mean, I am probably the greatest indicator of you having poor taste, but-’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin hears none of this. Still in the bag, his hand has hit something heavy, cool and smooth. Metal and plastic. Without thinking, he grabs hold of it and pulls it free from the bag. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Huh,’ Jon says, his previous mutterings cut off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>didn’t pack this,’ Martin says, turning the Polaroid camera to get a better look at it in the gloom. ‘I… I really don’t think it was in the bag before now, either. It would’ve been heavier.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a beat of silence while they consider the camera. Martin glances at Jon, catches his eye. ‘You don’t think it’s…’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Cursed?’ Jon finishes his thought. Martin opens his mouth, and Jon says, ‘No, I didn’t read you, I just had the same idea.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Well, if Goosebumps has taught me anything,’ Martin begins, and Jon barks out a laugh that catches them both by surprise. He shakes his head and reaches out, Martin passing him the camera to inspect. ‘Look, given, you know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, there is a non-zero chance of the camera being cursed, alright?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘If Goosebumps had really taught you anything, you probably would have stayed very far away from me,’ Jon retorts, looking closely at the little anachronistic piece of equipment. He holds it carefully in both hands, and for a moment the air around them feels tighter, a quiet ringing sounding in Martin’s ears and pressure at his temples. He will never get used to the feeling of Jon concentrating his power, try though he might. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘It really does just seem to be a camera,’ Jon says with a shrug, shaking Martin out of his reverie. Martin takes it gingerly. ‘I can’t sense anything around it. I mean, I also can’t sense how it ended up in your bag, either, so take that with a pinch of salt.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin lifts the bulky piece of plastic, putting his eye to the viewfinder. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. Jon stares at him through the lens, deadpan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Go on, might as well try it.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘What if it hurts you?’ Martin lowers the camera. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time you couldn’t sense something dangerous.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Better me than you,’ Jon says. ‘You might still have a soul worth stealing, if it’s dangerous the Eye might just break the lens and save us all the hassle.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Oh, don’t be so depressing,’ Martin says, and it has the desired effect; Jon flashes a fleeting, genuine grin, and he presses down the shutter release with a satisfying </span>
  <em>
    <span>click!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Huh. Sneaky,’ Jon says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Well, it seems to have film,’ Martin says, carefully taking the white rectangle the camera produced between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Which I maybe should have checked first.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns the camera upside down, then rotates it. ‘Ah. Well.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Let me guess,’ Jon steps closer. ‘Nowhere to put film?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Just like the tape recorders,’ Martin confirms. ‘Nowhere to even open it up.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Nowhere to store harvested souls,’ Jon drones. Martin thumps him on the arm. Not hard, but enough to make a point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘How’s the hand?’ Martin says, stooping to put the camera back in his bag. He tests the weight, nudging it with his foot. He was right, it’s definitely heavier now. He slings it over his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Still attached to my wrist, and that’s all that matters,’ Jon reaches out, linking their fingers together. ‘Ready to go?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin nods. ‘Lead the way,’ he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waits until Jon is looking away, determining their route, before surreptitiously fishing the photo out of his pocket. It hasn’t fully finished developing, but… even standing beside Jon as he is now, it warms his heart just to look at it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He carefully slips it back into his pocket, and they head off. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Look, it’s not -- it’s not great, I’ll admit it, but it definitely makes a nice change from the constant cloud cover,’ Jon says, sounding unsure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Nice?’ Martin says, weakly. They stand atop a hill overlooking a steep drop to what probably once was rolling fields. Gesturing to the sky, which is a storm of fire stained a deep rusted red, he repeats, ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Nice?</span>
  </em>
  <span>’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘The… the lighting is good?’ Jon adds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin pauses, looks to the sky, looks back to Jon. ‘You’re… actually right, and I don’t love that.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon sighs, presses a kiss to Martin’s cheek, and steps away to read the land. Martin keeps one eye on him as he goes, and considers their surroundings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Endless trekking through constant gloom, much like being confined to your home during winter months that persistently bring you nothing but cloud and rain, does begin to wear on you. And Jon is right - the flame storm isn’t an immediate danger, and it’s at least a change of scenery. Martin glances behind him again. The landscape is dull and grey, like clay molded into vague approximations of grass and trees and dilapidated buildings, then heavily charred and filtered with a blur. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not exactly an interesting backdrop. Although…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’ve just had a morbid idea,’ Martin says, trying to suppress a smile when Jon eventually returns. Jon raises a quizzical eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin fishes in his bag. ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ha</span>
  </em>
  <span>,’ he says. The Polaroid is still there, even though he really wasn’t sure it would be. He pulls it out and waves it at Jon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Apocalypse tourism?’ he suggests. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon lets out a startled laugh. He glances around them, assessing the scenery. ‘Well, there’s nobody around, so… you know, we won’t accidentally permanently capture the eternal torment of some poor tortured soul on film.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Right?’ Martin says. ‘Look, come over here.’ He takes a seat at the edge of the cliff, legs dangling over the edge. A calling presses at the periphery of his mind, whispering for him to push further forward. They are not in the domain of the Vast, but that does not stop it from reaching out. He brushes the urge away; alone, maybe he couldn’t have, but Jon anchors him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon obediently joins him, oblivious to the call of the void. ‘I’m still not sure about the moral implications of this,’ he says, but Martin hears the humour in it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘It’s just a selfie,’ Martin deadpans back. ‘Scooch, the viewfinder is kind of narrow.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘If you wanted a cuddle, you could have just asked,’ Jon murmurs, snaking his arms around Martin’s waist and leaning his head against his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Shut up,’ he says, feeling his cheeks heat up at the jest. He hopes the dull red glow from the flaming sky will disguise that in the photo, and a gentle </span>
  <em>
    <span>Click! </span>
  </em>
  <span>fills the dead air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon frees an arm, the other still firmly wrapped around Martin, and plucks the photo away before Martin can move to take it. ‘You have a pen in there?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a bit of a struggle to get to his bag with Jon clinging to him like a limpet, but he manages, passing Jon a plain black Sharpie that he is… 90% sure he did actually pack. The air tenses for a moment, then Jon nods, mutters, ‘yeah, I thought as much,’ and scribbles </span>
  <b>DESOLATION </b>
  <span>across the white border at the bottom of the slowly developing photo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Make it really morbid, now we’re doing collectibles,’ Jon says, recapping the pen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘One down, fourteen to go,’ Martin grones. ‘I am not doubling back to collect the ones we’ve already passed through.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon grimaces. ‘I have a feeling they’ll find us before we find them.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Again,’ Martin says softly, leaning into Jon. ‘I do hate when you’re right.’</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time is relative, after the world ends. That became evident almost immediately. Still, it feels like an eternity since they entered this fog. Martin tightens his grasp on Jon, who squeezes his hand in response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reassurance for them both, in a way, but Martin still doesn’t like that the fog seems to be trying to pry them apart. It… there’s no roaring waves, no sand crunching under their feet, but… Martin wants to take off, run, his skin feeling too tight and itchy. It’s like being dragged into the Lonely all over again, the same white clouds pushing at the backs of his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon hasn’t even stopped to refuel with a statement. It must be getting to him, probably about as much as the fog is getting to Martin, but he has shouldered it and kept going. He knows this isn’t the time, that the separation isn’t something Martin can do right now - and overhearing the statement likely wouldn’t be much better for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A new bank of white consumes them, and Martin’s hand disappears into the fog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Jon,’ he says, trying to swallow the panic that has been coming in constant waves for the duration of this journey. His voice is muted, and he wonders if Jon can even hear him. ‘Jon, I can’t see you.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In an instant, Jon is right by his side. ‘Hey,’ he says, and now his hands are on either side of Martin’s face. ‘You’re right here. I’m right here.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I know,’ Martin closes his eyes, trying to breathe, and then realises having his eyes closed makes the panic increase. He pries them open again, and Jon must get on his tiptoes because he’s pressing their foreheads together. The closeness should be claustrophobic, but it’s Jon, and the fog can’t get between them now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Stop or Go?’ Jon asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin hesitates. Keeping going would mean risking losing sight of Jon again, of being lost and alone in the fog, but… the fog has to end somewhere. And the sooner they get out of there, the sooner he can breathe again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Go,’ Martin breathes. ‘But, stay close, please,’ he says. Jon nods, entwines their arms, laces their fingers together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘We can do this,’ Jon says. They’ve been telling each other that so often, that it doesn’t always feel like it has a meaning anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They keep walking. It’s unnerving that nothing around them seems to make a sound; not any weather, not their feet on the ground. He can only imagine that this is what it must be like to be in space, if space were just endless fog. Jon starts humming in a deep tone, and it sounds like the fog is trying to suffocate it, but it’s still something. Although… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’ll let you off, this time,’ Martin says. Jon starts, sheepish, and the gentle probing pressure at his temples vanish. ‘But only because I think you were humming the Incy Wincy Spider, and it is genuinely helping.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Was I?’ Jon says. ‘Dear lord. I thought it was Teddy Bears’ Picnic.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Why were you trying to hum Teddy Bears’ Picnic?’ Martin says, baffled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I wasn’t, it was just the first thing that came into my head,’ Jon says, and if Martin isn’t wrong, it looks like he’s blushing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Wait,’ he says, and reaches into his bag, Jon looking concerned at the sudden halt. Before he can react, Martin pulls out the camera and snaps a photo of his bemused, blushing expression. It’ll be blurry, and almost indecipherable from the swirling fog, but it’s a face worth capturing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon stares at him. ‘Really?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Gotta catch ‘em all,’ Martin says, and shakily returns the camera to its place in his bag. ‘I’ll give it its caption later, though, let’s keep going. Please.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon nods, twines their arms even closer together. They keep walking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment, he asks, ‘Did… did the camera always have a neck strap?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin tightly shakes his head. He had noticed it, too, but he didn’t want to mention it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon doesn’t pry. Instead, he starts humming In The Hall of the Mountain King. A small voice in the back of Martin’s head notes that his partner is the world’s most peculiar Spotify playlist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is about to voice this thought when something emerges out of the fog. Emerges… emerges… and just keeps on emerging.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Jon,’ he says, and Jon is craning his neck too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I see it,’ Jon says, fascinated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Is it… real? Is this a place from the real world?’ Martin asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Technically, no. I… I think it’s the House of Usher,’ Jon says. ‘Or, well, mimicking the outward appearance of it, at least. But… bigger… like it’s fallen and been built back up again, with pieces missing and more added on.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The building before them just goes, and goes, and keeps going. A horrifying, stitched together mess of a grand manor house and a castle that for all the world seems to stretch endlessly upwards. There are significant fractures in the masonry, and every single window seems to emanate dark rather than light. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘That doesn’t seem like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>great </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing,’ Martin says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon shakes his head. ‘I don’t think it is,’ he says, and then he hesitates, and Martin knows exactly what that means.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘But we have to go in there,’ Martin says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fog has retreated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I don’t know what this place is,’ Jon says, frustration giving his voice an edge. ‘Or, rather, it’s… everything. Almost everything. There are too many signals. This house has… drawn in a lot of power.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Wonderful,’ Martin says. Stray fingers of fog reach for his neck, and he bats them away. ‘No time like the present,’ he says, the cheerful tone to his voice as flat and hollow as it has ever been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘And there’s no time in this version of the present,’ Jon says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You complete me.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I know,’ Jon says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin rolls his eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The heavy wooden doors hang open on their hinges. Martin turns on his torch and it dims to almost nothing immediately, and beside him Jon’s does the same. None of the light from the fog which, only moments before, had been all they could see manages to make it through the sizeable gap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he’s honest, Martin prefers this. Infinitely prefers it. Presses a hand to Jon’s lower back and says, ‘Don’t go far.’ There’s a hungry look in his partner’s eyes that isn’t fully phased out by gratitude as he nods, and disappears into the shadows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin sits, leaning against the rough stone of the wall by the entryway. The torch dies completely and he sighs, places it on the ground beside him. As he does so, he notices a heap of material nearby. It appears to be some sort of tapestry, red, gold, black. It looks soft, but as he reaches out to touch the material it disappears from view as though dragged by an unseen hand. As this happens, quiet whispers start circling around his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs. He has never really been afraid of the dark. The amount of horror he has seen during the light has nullified the power of the darkness. Some of the things the whispers say worm into his mind, insidious, venomous - but he can hear Jon’s quiet, determined recitation, almost like a ritual. Sound travels better here; the dark wants you to hear all the things that dwell in it, half the fear stems from not knowing precisely what sounds you have to worry about. He can handle that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would rather hear too much than nothing at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon enough the reassuring, rhythmic speech stops. A floorboard creaks. Jon is by his side again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Tell me something only Jon would know,’ Martin says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon huffs a quiet laugh, and a gentle tension prods at Martin’s temple.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You love me,’ Jon says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘That’s not a secret, but get out my head, I believe you,’ Martin says, trying to read the sharp angles of Jon’s face in the shadow. Some of his long hair has slipped from his hair tie and fallen in front of his eyes, which doesn’t help the matter, but he seems muted. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon wordlessly crumples to the ground beside him. ‘Breathe,’ Martin says, rubs a hand across his back. ‘Bad one?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Bad one,’ Jon confirms, and his voice is hoarse. Martin opens his arms, and Jon buries his face in his shoulder. ‘I miss being able to sleep. I’m not even tired, I just… the mental reset you get from being unconscious? Would be appreciated right now.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Yeah,’ Martin says. Waits for him to say anything more, and when he doesn’t, says, ‘How about we move somewhere we can actually see a foot in front of our faces before we take a break?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels more than he sees Jon nodding. ‘Remember to get a photo of this beautiful landscape before we go.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Worried for him though he is, that does draw a laugh from Martin. ‘I’ll let you do the honours,’ he says, dipping into his bag yet again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon holds the camera at arm’s length, presses down on the shutter release… and they both flinch as a flash like lightning swamps their immediate surroundings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘That was new,’ Jon says, after a heartbeat. Martin offers him his bag, he hastily drops the camera inside. Martin doesn’t feel it hit the bottom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Let’s find the light,’ Martin says, and, like moths to a flame, they go.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They find themselves in a long, narrow hallway with grand, empty picture frames along both walls and an ornate door at the other end, before the corridor takes a sharp right turn away from their line of sight. Though dingy, with peeling wallpaper and floorboards that groan with even the suggestion of pressure, there are enough oil lamps at regular intervals along the walls that it’s a damn sight more pleasant than either of their previous environs. The glass of the lamps are swaddled in cobwebs and dust, though whether that is simply an indication of age or something more sinister remains to be seen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Do you want to sit down?’ he asks, but Jon has already slid down a wall. He already looks better after a few moments in the light, but still a little shaken. Sometimes he just needs time to process the stories he’s ripped from the air, inspect the places where they run parallel to his own life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin takes a seat opposite him, their right legs a line of unbroken contact. He sets his bag aside and, after a moment of thought, rummages through the topmost contents until he successfully produces three glossy, white-edged photographs, and lays them out neatly on the floor in front of him. He then pulls out the permanent marker and neatly prints the two newest domains along the bottom, the slightest of tremors marking the penmanship of the one labelled </span>
  <b>LONELY</b>
  <span>; tremors that are notably absent from the photos labelled </span>
  <b>DARK </b>
  <span>and </span>
  <b>DESOLATION</b>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>feels </span>
  </em>
  <span>the moment his face drains of colour. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘What?’ Jon says, when he raises his head. Martin simply twists the most recent photograph around and pushes it towards him so that he can see it more clearly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Along the right side of the frame is Martin, from a low angle and mostly out of shot. He appears startled by the light, and it wouldn't exactly be a flattering photo if he hadn't mostly been overexposed to the point of being unrecognisable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind him, and taking up much of the background, is something different entirely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is the loud, inarticulate sound of Jon drawing a sharp breath through his teeth before he says, ‘Was that in there with us the entire time?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I think I’m happier not knowing,’ Martin responds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The… thing in the background is tall but hunched over, a washed out dark grey, and seems to have all its joints set backwards underneath its tightly wrapped skin. There is no way of knowing how many limbs it has, as they disappear into the darkness around it at odd angles. Great, bulbous white eyes protrude at the top of the image, cutting off with the frame just before the brow bone. It looks like it has two sets of maw, teeth long and twisted in deeply unsettling shapes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It makes Martin'’s jaw ache just to look at, and in that moment he is glad to have a wall at his back to ease the knee jerk reaction to check behind him for this… being. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Glad we got that out of the way,’ Jon says. Martin’s eyes stray to the other photos, anything to provide a brief respite from the Dark image. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon follows his gaze, reaching out and touching the photo from the Desolation fondly. It’s a very sweet photo, if you ignore the sludge grey landscape behind them; the factory with shattered windows, more gaping holes than tiles where the roof should be, all but one of its doors hanging off their hinges. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>very much tell that Martin is blushing, though, lighting be damned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The middle picture of the three is almost as difficult to look at as the Dark one, for Martin. Jon being swallowed by the fog isn’t something he really needed a permanent reminder of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But something is off. He looks closer, noticing shapes in the fog that definitely weren't there when they were traversing that domain. A gnarled, ghostly hand. Something that looked like a tattered sheet, blowing in the wind. Something large and blocky, straight lines and right angles. He can’t make sense of it, and not just because they - and Jon - were blurred with the motion of the camera; these things simply had </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>been there at all when the photo was taken. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Do you think this is, you know,’ Martin says, tapping the camera. ‘Your lot’s doing?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon snorts. ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>My lot</span>
  </em>
  <span>,’ he shakes his head. ‘Not as far as I’m aware. Plus, it did appear in </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> bag. Though it does seem to have some kind of seeing properties.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something nudges at the back of Martin’s mind. ‘Maybe cameras are just… like that.’ He can see a booth, a scuffed wooden tabletop, a drink in his hand. ‘Melanie,’ he remembers, suddenly. ‘She told me once about how cameras seem to almost magically be capable of capturing… things. No agenda. Just truth.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘No agenda,’ Jon says, scrubbing his forehead with one hand. ‘Must be nice.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Must be,’ Martin agrees, watching him. ‘You okay?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon's mouth stretches into a wry smile. ‘Tired,’ he says. ‘As always.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Well, I’m here if you need to talk about it,’ Martin says. ‘Not that I have anywhere better to go,’ he adds. Jon kicks him gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin smiles. He leans forward to pick up the Polaroid once more, and then stops. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘It’s a door,’ he says abruptly, gesturing at the blocky shape in the fog. He glances back to the photo in the glowing light of the Desolation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's almost imperceptible in the small image, but he’s absolutely certain of it. The single door still on its hinges has long, disjointed digits snaking around it, drawing it closed from the outside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Helen,’ they say, voices overlapping in their distrust. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Further down the hallway comes the sound of creaking wood. A dull </span>
  <em>
    <span>click.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>In unison they look up, the movement sharp and fast, only to see that there is a blank wall where once stood a door at the end of the hallway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘What </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> she up to,’ Martin wonders, a pit in his stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I…’ Jon swallows, and says the one thing that unsettles Martin more than anything else he could possibly say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I don't know.’</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The corridor is just a corridor, as it happens. No endless twists and turns, no doors that aren’t really doors. Apparently, some of the house was just that: a dilapidated old building, a remnant of the old world that no longer exists. And there’s something inherently cruel about that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, the lack of a jump scare is even worse than the jump scare itself, Martin thinks. Funnily enough, before all this he was never one for scary movies. But he had seen enough to know that at least when something terrible presents itself, the shock at least rids you of the tension that has built up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows Helen is probably around here somewhere, that she has been following them this whole time. In fairness, they have suspected that for a while, but to have it confirmed is still… eerie, to say the least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They pass through an open doorway, and he feels like he has walked straight into the set of a horror movie. The room is grand, high ceilinged, dim aside from wide patio doors set with windows that let in moonlight, oddly. He knows that can’t be real, and the illusion is a painful prick at the back of his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He misses the world where he could see the moon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that’s not the most startling thing about this room. No, that would be the looming, pale figures dotted thick about the room. Martin’s hand turns sweaty in Jon’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Don’t worry, I think… I think it’s just furniture.’ Jon says. He reaches out for one of the shapes. Martin now realises he’s right; they’re white sheets draped over sharp edges. Dust covers. But he still lets out a strangled noise of fear when Jon firmly grips a sheet and tugs, hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It falls to the ground, and as their joined reflection emerges in the shining glass of the mirror, two things happen at once. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door behind them slams shut, and outside, like a candle snuffed out, the moon and all its light vanishes. There’s a slithering sound around them, like - if he had to hazard a guess - oh so many dust covers slipping to the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon releases the sheet in his hand, and his grip on Martin tightens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They can still see their reflection in the mirror. It’s emitting some kind of dull light, like an old television left on standby in the dark. They’re pale and substanceless, just ghosts on the glass. Martin has one hand in Jon’s, the other reflexively gripping his arm. Jon is still reaching out towards the reflection after dropping the cover. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both look… terrible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a scraping sound nearby, moving around them in a circle, like something is being dragged along the floor. Jon takes a deep breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I don’t suppose you think those doors are where we left them,’ Jon says, voice low, and Martin immediately forgets the question when he sees that the reflection’s mouth doesn’t move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Jon,’ he says, dragging air into his lungs through gritted teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Yeah, I see it,’ Jon says. Then the faces do move, as though the reflections are lagging behind the people on the other side of the mirror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Martin,’ he says, and this time the reflection syncs perfectly. ‘I think we should move away from this mirror.’ In the mirror, Martin’s lips are curling upward in a smile that doesn’t look like a smile, and he can guarantee his own face is not doing the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He begins to move backwards, directly towards where he knows the door </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>was seconds before. He stumbles into something that definitely </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>there seconds before. His hand brushes cold glass, and then even colder fingers wrap around his wrist. He gasps, spins around, and comes nose to nose with his own reflection. Its hands have stretched through the pane, and it’s clutching his arm, holding hard enough to bruise, nails like talons scoring into the skin, and it stares into his eyes with malice in its grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin cries out, grips at his own arm at the elbow and yanks, throwing all his weight backwards. The thing claws the length of his wrist and hand but releases him, and he falls on the floor heavily. He falls out of the range of the mirror, blood streaming down his hands as he tries to cover the wound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances back over his shoulder with a yelp of barely stifled pain, panicked. Jon is nowhere to be seen, the glow from the previous mirror no longer visible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first he can’t force out any words, they can’t escape his throat. ‘Jon?’ he manages to whimper. He can feel his heart in his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly there is nothing but blinding light. Martin flinches, screws his eyes shut until they’re open as little as is physically possible. The room has completely changed around him. There’s no longer the old standing mirrors he had seen moments before in the grand, abandoned room, no dust covers or windowed doors. There are just mirrors. Mirrors on mirrors on mirrors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s surrounded by his own reflection, his own terrified face, blood everywhere. Some of the reflections are grinning. Some move out of sight. Some are doing - bad, awful things, unspeakable things. He hears a shout, then the air is sucked out of his lungs, leaving him winded. At the same time, smashing glass, and a pounding headache. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jon</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And he’s using his powers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He staggers to his feet and lowers his head, looking away from the mirrors, from the lights. He clutches his bad arm to his chest and feels his way with the other one, recoiling at the slightest touch of cold, figuring it’s better to lose a hand than to bodily bump into one of the mirrors and risk what comes with that. He tries to head towards the sound, but everything is too much. Laughter begins to rise and fall around him, grating and inhuman and oddly musical. Something hooks around his arm and he staggers out of its grasp, catching his foot on uneven ground and ending up on the floor once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He barely bites back a scream when Jon drops to his knees beside him. ‘Martin, oh god, Martin your arm - are you - where did you </span>
  <em>
    <span>go</span>
  </em>
  <span>?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Where did </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>go?’ Martin says, keeping his wrist pressed close to him. Jon hovers his hands by his injury, before settling them on his upper arms and helping him up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Nowhere,’ he responds, looking up. The familiar pressure at Martin’s temples has subsided, but he doesn’t even notice for the pain that lashes through his body. ‘I can get us out of here, come on, let’s go.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The beings in the mirrors still reach out as they pass, but fail to make contact as they make their escape, broken glass crunching under their feet. It feels like the lights dim, and the searing headache starts to ebb away too. He can feel himself beginning to go lightheaded from the blood loss, though. And without sleeping to help his body repair itself… he’s not sure what’s going to happen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, they’re pushing out into the air, collapsing out onto the balcony they spotted earlier from inside the room. The false moon is now covered in cloud, and the air is unpleasantly humid. A markedly out of place fire escape winds further up the building, the only path forward, and Martin drags himself to sit on the lowest step.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Give me your bag,’ Jon says, and Martin shrugs it off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Bandages should be near the top,’ Martin winces. Jon hesitates for a moment, then nods and delves into the bag. It takes longer than it should for him to pull out one of the rolls, and then he looks at Martin. If Martin didn’t know better, he would say he was panicking. ‘Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>help me</span>
  </em>
  <span>,’ he says, through gritted teeth. The wound is going from stinging to numb, which is never a good sign, and his hoodie is sodden with blood down the front. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a tearing sound then a bandage is pressed to his hand. Martin helps him wind it round, pulls a safety pin from his pocket and stabs it closed. Jon steps back and runs his hands over his head, scrubbing through the short shorn hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin takes a deep breath. He can feel anger bubbling just under the surface, doesn’t want to lash out just because he's in pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Thank you,’ he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon stays kneeling before him, reaches out in an almost jerky movement and takes Martin's good hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You did what you could,’ Martin shakes his head. ‘We got out,’ he says. ‘That’s what matters.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon leans forward, presses a kiss to Martin’s knuckles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin tries to laugh, but it comes out a bit strangled. ‘We’ll have to go back in - never got a photo for the domain, did we?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘No,’ Jon says, forcefully, his grip tightening and his gaze snapping up to meet Martin's. ‘You’re not going back in there. It was a stupid idea anyway.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I know, Jon,’ he soothes. ‘I was only kidding, I wouldn't go back in there for anything.’ He pauses. ‘Whose was that, anyway?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon thinks for a moment. ‘I… I didn’t stop to find out. Helen was nearby earlier, could be spiral.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin hums; not necessarily in agreement, but not disagreeing either. ‘She’s always around.’ He inclines his head, glances up at Jon through his eyelashes. He has deep bruises settling under his eyes, his skin pale and wan. His eyes are darting wildly between the stairs and the view from the fire escape. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin can’t put his finger on it, but he can’t escape the feeling that this house is taking more of a toll on Jon than the rest of the wastes were. Something has changed in him. Something… not good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Maybe we should rest again,’ Martin says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Let’s get away from there first,’ Jon says, gesturing over his shoulder at the doors they escaped through moments before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin shudders. Remembers the icy grip on his wrist. Clutches Jon tighter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Good idea,’ Martin says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stairs lead them inside, into a wide corridor with cement floors and strip lights flickering on and off above them. It looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>incredibly </span>
  </em>
  <span>out of place given the rest of the places they’ve passed through since entering the house. A metal drain runs down the centre of the room, dark brown stains spatter every surface. It isn't hard to imagine where they're headed, into whose domain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He almost expects to hear distant machinery, but there is only silence. Their footsteps sound like gunshots, and Martin is trying to have the quietest argument of his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I can take it,’ he whispers. ‘You have enough to put up with. Besides, my arm isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> bad.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon just glowers at him, Martin’s bag seeming huge against his thin frame. He never would have described him as frail before, but…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’m not about to keel over,’ Jon whispers back. Martin expects to feel the telltale buzz at his temples, but there's nothing. A lucky guess. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin rolls his eyes, but leaves the matter for now. Jon hitches the bag higher on his shoulders, and Martin notices one of the smaller front pockets isn't sealed just as something inside it shifts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin opens his mouth to warn him, but before he can even start a small rectangular object slips out, falls to the ground with a ringing clatter. Jon flinches away from the sound, and turns to look as a </span>
  <em>
    <span>click </span>
  </em>
  <span>sounds and a familiar voice begins to echo down the halls. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>‘How did you cut that to size?’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>Martin hears himself say. There’s a moment of dead air, just the crackles and pops of the tape. </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Animal. You're an animal.’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>Static begins to mount, almost unbearably loud, the hair on the back of Martin’s neck stands up, the air thickens so much he nearly chokes--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jon’s heel crashes down on the recorder, again and again and again, pieces of metal and plastic scattering across the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘What </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>that?’ Martin asks, and he might be shouting, the stress of the sudden noise and his heart thundering in his ears having him momentarily throwing all caution to the wind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Nothing good,’ Jon says, sounding short of breath. ‘It was so loud, </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> loud, that much noise -’<br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Jon!</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ Martin shouts over him. He turns to see what Martin is pointing at. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first it’s hidden, the end of the corridor shrouded in darkness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the lights flicker back on, almost entirely obscured by the sheer size of the thing at the end. It’s a pulsating mass of… there’s no other word for it, it’s flesh. It drags itself forward with one twisted, meaty arm the size of an entire person that bends and bends again, more joints and fingers that should possibly be connected, rending the concrete wherever it grasps. The heavy, coppery stench of blood is almost a physical force, its wet heat coming in waves that nearly push Martin backwards down the hall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then it’s Jon pushing him, shouting, ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>RUN</span>
  </em>
  <span>.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin stumbles, catches himself. The lights flicker once more and it’s only a few feet in front of him, so he </span>
  <em>
    <span>runs</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What he somehow hasn’t noticed up until this point is the </span>
  <em>
    <span>sound </span>
  </em>
  <span>that accompanies its passage behind him, a squelching moist vacuum that seems to take up the entire hallway, like it’s growing in size as it chases them. Metal and plastic clatter in its wake as anything that has been absorbed by the thing scrapes along every surface as it moves. Jon is just behind him and he can hardly hear him running with him, and then he makes a panicked noise and overtakes him with a burst of sudden speed and adrenaline. It’s all he can do to stop himself from looking back to see what initiated this terror. He keeps running forward, which may well be what saves him as he leaps clear over a newly erupted vent in the floor, then can’t help himself and glances over his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is how he manages to completely miss the opening in the wall until an arm reaches out and bodily yanks him backwards into it by the neck of his hoodie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His foot hits nothing but air and he tumbles. Jon swears as Martin falls past him, losing his grip, and Martin feels hard stone and loose dirt as he hits the ground. He catches himself after a moment, and from the little light filtering in from the entrance up above sees that he’s fallen a good few feet down some old, weathered stone steps, for all the world as though they’ve gone straight from several storeys up to submerged completely underground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is an utterly ungodly noise from above, and the mass of the creature starts to blot out the light once more before the door slams shut and they’re sealed in complete darkness. In the seconds before the light disappears, Martin sees Jon near the top of the stairs reaching down for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Are you okay?’ he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’ve had worse,’ Martin says. ‘Literally a few hours ago, in fact.’ He hears movement up above, Jon shuffling around in the darkness. ‘You?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘There wasn’t a door here before,’ he says. ‘And there isn’t one now.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Why is Helen helping?’ Martin says, picking himself up. Besides a few scrapes on his hands and some bruises he can feel developing fast on his knees, he’s relatively unscathed. The wound from the mirror room begins to throb in pain once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Are you sure she’s helping?’ when Jon speaks, it’s right into Martin’s ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jon,’ Martin jumps, feels the wall close behind him. ‘Warn me next time,’ he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels Jon’s hand take his own. ‘Sorry.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘It’s okay. You still have the bag?’ he asks. ‘Check to see if there are still any torches in there.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Did… did you pack them?’ Jon replies. Martin thinks for a moment. He knows they both had them in the dark, but he can’t remember whether or not he put them back in the bag, seeing as they hadn’t been working. Martin shrugs, and just hopes he feels the motion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He must do, because Jon lets go and Martin hears the sound of fabric on fabric, an unzipping motion. They’re both being so, so very quiet, yet they’re making the only sounds here. There’s a heavy feeling in the air, and everything once again feels muted. ‘Nothing,’ Jon says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Ah,’ he says, panic bubbling underneath his skin. The dark may not faze him, but being trapped sightless underground isn’t exactly a run of the mill situation. ‘The camera,’ he says suddenly, voice cracking as he brightens. ‘Didn’t it have a flash?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon remains silent for a few moments as he searches. Then, ‘Martin, it’s not here.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘What?’ he says. The panic pings back like an elastic band. He kneels next to Jon, wincing as the rough floor aggravates the bruises on his knees. He dips his hand into the bag, can’t feel the bulky block of plastic. ‘It can’t have gone…’ he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Maybe you dropped it in with the mirrors,’ says Jon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin shakes his head fervently. ‘I’ve been keeping it in the bag, after it spawned the strap I was… I didn’t want to put that thing around my neck.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘It’s okay,’ Jon says. When Martin doesn’t respond, he pulls him closer and presses a kiss to his forehead. ‘I can take us forward. We just need to take our time, alright? Take my hand and don’t let go.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air feels heavy in his lungs. Martin doesn’t argue, just does as he’s bid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hand of his injured arm clasped securely in Jon’s, he stretches out the other to drag his fingertips along the closest wall as they go. Even the slightest reassurance that they are anchored in a physical space is worth it, the trickle of dirt to the ground an improvement on the utter silence pressing in on them. The walls get closer, less even, the space they’re in smaller and smaller as they move along. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘It’s funny,’ Jon says after what feels like hours, what is probably days, voice barely above a whisper. His voice sounds so much nearer than he knows him to be. ‘You pulled me out of the buried, now I can finally return the favour.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin feels a tug at his heart, even above his thrumming anxiety. It’s not something Jon would have said to him before the world ended; it might still be something he wouldn’t say if they could see each other face to face. ‘You got me out of the lonely, I think we’re even.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon huffs a quiet laugh in the darkness. ‘When did that sort of thing become perfectly normal for us to say?’ It’s more of a statement than a question. Martin lets it hang in the air, doesn’t answer, then realises he can make out the vague outline of Jon in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Light,’ Martin says, just as Jon says, ‘Oh,’ and stops walking, Martin muttering a quiet apology as he bumps into him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘This isn’t going to be fun,’ Jon says, turning to the side so Martin can see past him, though </span>
  <em>
    <span>see </span>
  </em>
  <span>is something of an exaggeration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Ah,’ Martin responds. The crevice is narrow, with jutting ledges that carve deep into the slim space. It looks to take a turn not too deep in, and it’s impossible to tell whether it’s actually a way out, though the light must be coming from somewhere. ‘Is it safe?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Much as I don’t trust Helen, I don’t think she would take us from the flesh just to feed us to the buried.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sounds unsure, though, and he doesn’t blame him. There’s something weird about this house. There seems to be a distinct lack of lost souls here, the whispers that usually nag at the edge of his hearing have entirely dissipated. Not to mention that, based on his experience thus far throughout the apocalypse, usually the fear afflicted are warded off by Jon. At the very least, they aren’t so outwardly aggressive unless they had a personal tie to him, and neither the mirror folk nor the heaving mass seems to be something he recognises. Maybe something makes them hungrier here, less in control. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gashes on his wrist </span>
  <em>
    <span>zing </span>
  </em>
  <span>with pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe whatever is happening here, even Helen doesn’t want it to continue. Up until now she has been toying with them, offering Martin an out, picking at Jon, but never actively moving against or with them. Stalking them in the background of photos, that’s her sort of thing. Not throwing them a door for a quick escape, and certainly not leaving instead of sticking around to gloat. Maybe even </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn’t feel safe here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon has just been waiting in silence for Martin to shake out of his thoughts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Do you want me to go first?’ he asks Jon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I don’t want to leave you in the dark,’ he places the words into the heavy air slowly, apprehensively. ‘But I also can’t protect you if I’m back here.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Yes, because we’ve been doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>well fighting back recently,’ Martin tries to tease, but it falls flat, and even in this dimmest of dim light he sees Jon visibly bristle. ‘I can go, if you’re sure you’re okay in the dark,’ he says, trying to make amends with a kinder tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’ve had worse,’ he says, and something about it rubs Martin the wrong way. It occurs to him that he said the very same thing earlier, and something about the way he said it… it’s like he’s making fun of him. Same intonation, same waver to his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Okay,’ he says, careful to keep his tone even. He just wants to get out of this place, the sooner the better. Whatever is up with Jon, it will be easier to deal with back on the open wastes. Right now, they just need to stick together. To help each other. Martin can chew him out for being a prick once they’re not trapped in an underground passage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Besides, just because they haven’t encountered someone afflicted by the fears yet, doesn’t mean they won’t. And rather than stick around arguing here, and waiting for it to happen, Martin would like to at least be able to see whatever is coming for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They adjust their positions and Martin pauses before he moves into the crevice. He places a gentle hand to Jon’s jaw, and after a stilted heartbeat he leans into the touch. ‘Keep talking so I know you’re okay.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels him nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin turns his head towards the light, takes a deep breath, and slips into the tight space. Behind him, rather than speaking, Jon starts humming again. This time it isn’t a tune he recognises; it’s low, slow and haunting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hairs on the back of Martin’s neck stand up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps moving.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rock presses into his spine. Into his neck, forcing his head to rest at a strange angle. Grazing against his stomach, so close he can barely breathe, and then he can’t breathe, and it feels like rock is in his lungs, and the light doesn’t get any stronger. His limbs are all like lead, scraping along the rocky walls like nails down a chalkboard, rattling his teeth. He feels like he’s gone back on himself time and time again, like he’s being compacted into shards of metal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he gets tired. So, so tired. He just wants to stop, to close his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hasn’t slept since the world ended, but right now it would just be so, so easy… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then there’s a sharp smacking sound, like something being thrown to the floor, a voice shouting his name, static in his ears - and the next thing he knows, he’s on the ground. He can breathe again, move through air instead of rock. He feels like he could float away. He moves his head just to see if he can, opens his eyes to a grey light, but light nonetheless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A tape recorder lies beside his head, crackling quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushes himself up to a sitting position, and a simple glance at his surroundings tells him all he needs to know about whose domain they have entered. He’s on a landing, stairs spiralling upwards and downwards, with no barriers between the steps and a sheer drop. Just below there’s a crumbled down section of wall, and it’s the only place he can see where he could have fallen through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a miracle he didn’t fall down the stairs. It’s dark outside, but the bruised and broken sky is a marked improvement to the passage he just suffered through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well… </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>has entered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon still hasn’t surfaced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Jon?’ he calls out, quietly. There’s no response. He’s not sure when his humming stopped, but it certainly isn’t there now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he hears it; a dull crunching sound from the wall above his landing. He looks up just in time to see the stonework warping, creating a thin path between where they had previously stood so firmly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Martin?’ the voice sounds weak, strained, but it’s him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Jon!’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets to his feet, careful as he can be in his haste, and staggers upwards. Jon looks lodged tight, his shoulders and neck at an extreme angle, one leg twisted impossibly in front of him with the arm that holds Martin’s bag. It looks like the bag is blocking the way, so Martin reaches for it, tugs it out - except Jon doesn’t let go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘What are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>doing</span>
  </em>
  <span>?’ Martin says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Can’t… loosen grip,’ Jon says through clenched teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You’re going to have to, I can’t help you out with it blocking the way. I’m going to pull, and you try and let go, okay? Three, two, one-’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that, Martin gives a sharp pull on the bag and it flies past him, spilling onto the floor and teetering on the edge of the abyss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It can’t have been secured properly, because out slips one of the water bottles, two rolls of bandages and every one of the polaroids that were still littering the bottom after they abandoned their apocalypse gallery. Martin pays them no heed as they tumble out of sight, never once taking his eyes off Jon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though he does, in the back of his mind, note that he never hears them hit the bottom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a Herculean effort, they eventually pull him free, sinking to the steps with shaking limbs. The wall closes behind them with a dull screech. Martin pats at Jon frantically, sure something must be snapped or twisted out of place, but Jon stills his hands and holds him close. ‘It’s an illusion, it’s part of the fear,’ he promises, but Martin cannot find it in himself to believe him. At that moment, he had just looked so </span>
  <em>
    <span>broken</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, but he regrets letting him stay behind. He should have let him go first, rather than being buried alive on his own yet again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit and collect themselves for a moment, Jon breathing heavily, scrubbing at his face with bleary eyes. Martin wonders if he had been knocked out when he fell from the rock, if that was something that could happen here. Surely not, he thinks, something would have taken him if he had his guard down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Upwards and onwards, right?’ Martin says, after Jon has had some time to calm down. ‘I mean, seeing as logically you would think the way out of a tower is to descend, to get out of this one you probably need to </span>
  <em>
    <span>ascend</span>
  </em>
  <span> - right? Dream logic.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Dream logic,’ Jon agrees, still sounding shaken, then sighs. ‘Oh good, the secret fifteenth fear: </span>
  <em>
    <span>stairs</span>
  </em>
  <span>.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin laughs despite himself. ‘The extinction would like to have a word.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon glances at him sharply, as if to reprimand, then shrugs. Martin bites back a sound of frustration, wondering what the hell he could possibly have done wrong there. Something nags at the back of his mind, and he wonders… how long has really passed since Jon fed from the fears in the Dark? They’ve spent so much time running that he has no way of knowing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sooner they’re out of here, the sooner they get somewhere Jon can take a statement and come back to himself, the better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches down and scoops up the contents of the bag that can still be salvaged. Jon doesn’t try to stop him this time; he’s looking up and away, up the winding staircase. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin doesn’t know what possesses him, but he also slips the new tape recorder into one of the outer pockets. Maybe for luck. Maybe for… oh, he doesn’t know, but he does it. Nothing makes sense anymore, any slight chance to feel grounded is worth taking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Especially given where they’re going. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They start climbing, and the vertigo is almost instant. They both stay as close to the wall as possible, carefully sidestepping piles of rubble and stairs that have crumbled halfway to dust. Martin feels like he’s in an elevator that’s had the wires cut and is rapidly plummeting to earth, and has to stop and close his eyes, trying to will the dizziness away. Jon pauses to wait for him, but continues to say nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin doesn’t like this at all, and the unease only mounts as they climb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Martin could compare the two journeys in any meaningful way, he would probably say the squeeze through the buried took longer than making their way to the topmost floor of the tower. But then again, it perhaps shouldn’t surprise him that the climb should be so short when the real meat of the fear is in the promise of a long fall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What goes up… he shakes away the thought, concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other until he is on the even, if unstable, ground at the top of the tower.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He peers through the odd purple light cast by the bruise of a sky that greets them as he emerges. An invisible storm buffets him as soon as he reaches the final few stairs, and if there ever was a roof or walls protecting this area from the elements, it is long gone. The floorboards feel likely to give way under his weight. He pushes a particularly rotten one with the toe of his boot, and it disintegrates to almost nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks up to tell Jon to mind his step, and stifles a sharp gasp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s just a small thing, so small that he can’t quite put his finger on it. Maybe it’s the way he moves to step around a missing piece of floor. Maybe it’s the disinterest in his surroundings, his sheer </span>
  <em>
    <span>quietness</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Maybe it’s because this is the first time he’s looked at him, really looked at him, from afar in god knows how long. It may be a trick of the light, it may well be, but he cannot for the life of him remember the last time it looked like Jon was breathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin holds his breath, as quietly, oh so quietly, muffled from within the confines of his bag, a voice says a single word, punctuated with the telltale hisses, crackles and pops of the tape recorders he has spent the equivalent of several lifetimes poring over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Martin.</span>
  </em>
  <span>’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something clicks. Slowly, deliberately, without making a sound or a sudden move, Martin reaches into the back pocket of his jeans. He withdraws the final remaining small, glossy white square he had slipped in there for safekeeping, what felt like millenia ago, hiding it as he feared Jon would find it embarrassing. He curves his fingers around it protectively. Glances at it. Confirms everything he hadn’t wanted to have confirmed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Shame we lost that camera,’ he says, his heart in his mouth, and Jon stills. Turns his head to look at him over his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Yeah, and all the photos, too,’ Jon replies. ‘I really did love the one from the desolation.’ He smiles, and it’s a warm smile, and it feels like a dagger in his heart. ‘Maybe we’ll luck across another one, and we can start from scratch once we get this damn place behind us.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘No, I don’t think so,’ Martin says. For the briefest of moments, Jon’s eyes narrow. ‘Whoever - whatever - has been helping me, with the bandages, the camera, the tape recorder… all the things you conveniently fumbled, I should say… I don’t think they would be too thrilled if, after all the efforts they went to, you managed to leave this house. Besides,’ he gestures around them. ‘There’s no way through, here. No way to go but down. You have no idea where you’re going, do you?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘What are you talking about?’ Jon laughs, but it sounds stilted, almost robotic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Where is Jon?’ Martin’s tone brooks no argument.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’m right here, what is wrong with you?’ Jon tries anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Things started attacking us after we got separated in the mirror room,’ Martin says, piecing together the series of events preceding this. ‘Almost as though they knew there was no longer a threat to their safety among us. I assume that’s where you took him. Where he still is.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Martin, don’t do this. It’s me, you know it’s me,’ Jon says. ‘I love you, you know that.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wind howls around them as Martin swallows the hard lump in his throat, his heart crystallizing in his chest. ‘I do,’ he says. ‘But you wouldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>say </span>
  </em>
  <span>that. Not to win me over.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Martin, </span>
  <em>
    <span>listen </span>
  </em>
  <span>to me,’ Jon commands, with all the force he can muster, and Martin feels… nothing. No tension at his temple. No pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And god, he never thought he would miss that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin assesses him… no, this thing isn’t him. It’s taller than Jon, of course, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course </span>
  </em>
  <span>he sees that now. The skin is pale, the scarring too faded, the hair buzzed short. This isn’t his friend, the man he’s been in love with for years. That man has long hair and a scrappy beard, like he’s allergic to barbers and has been for years. His skin is a dark, warm brown, and is laced with more scarring than the surface of the goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>moon</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And he’s just that little bit shorter than Martin that it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>adorable </span>
  </em>
  <span>when he gets angry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I think I’m right. You can’t have killed him,’ Martin says, filing that image into a pocket of his mind for later, alongside the guilt. He's calmer in this steely state, logical. He needs to stay this way. ‘You’re not important enough.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thing who is not Jon curls its lip. ‘Important enough to take care of </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>,’ it says, taking a step forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin grins, reckless. ‘No, no you’re not, or you would have done it already. Getting Jon must have been a one in a million fluke. You ran </span>
  <em>
    <span>scared </span>
  </em>
  <span>at the sight of the other things in there, couldn’t do a single thing to defend yourself. And the things in here have </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing </span>
  </em>
  <span>on some of the things out there--’ he throws an arm out to the empty space over the lip of the tower, a mere foot away from where he still stands at the top of the stairs. ‘Is it because there’s nothing here to feed on? I’ve not caught a whiff of a soul since the dark down there, and that was a long way away from you. What is it? None of you quite ready to get released on the real world? That makes sense I guess, because, well, you’ve proved it really - none of you are </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>enough, or you would’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>killed </span>
  </em>
  <span>me by now.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels the static building up around him. It doesn’t feel the same as it did before, but if this is the lonely feeding whatever he’s doing right now, he doesn’t care. He’ll siphon any power he can take. This thing took Jon from him. Left him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>rot </span>
  </em>
  <span>in a hall of mirrors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’ll do anything to get him back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thing doesn’t respond, whatever it was using for vocal chords presumably having been rent apart as it unhinges its jaw from its neck, extending a dripping, gory mess of teeth and tendrils as its humanoid form all but dissolved underneath it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a reason, he supposes, that the stranger usually wears masks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thing takes another step towards him, a screech like a car crash emanating from its maul. Martin steps backwards with him, a perilous dance that ends with his heels hanging over the ledge. There’s nothing between him and an infinity of falling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except, perhaps, for an ex-real estate agent with impeccable timing. He has to hope. Has to believe she’s still here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grins at the thing, letting himself bask in this, what may well be his last moment of free will before a gruesome extended death. He is aware he sounds manic as he says, ‘You know what they say; “when god closes a window,--”’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And lets himself fall.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a moment and an eternity all at once before Martin hits the ground, sideways. Besides a touch of motion sickness from the sudden recalibration of the physical world around him, he’s unscathed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Thank you, Helen,’ he says. The fall, however long it truly lasted, has had a sobering effect on his demeanour, and his heart is beginning to ache. Not quite to the point of defeat, more… quiet determination. He stands, weary in spirit but whole in body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You were always my favourite,’ Helen says, and despite everything he still can’t work out whether she’s mocking him. Which, in all honesty, is probably the point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You helped me,’ he says, trying not to squint at her disconcerting appearance. Trying, even now, not to be rude. ‘You were trying to help us both. Why?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he didn’t know better, he would swear that the look that ripples over the… ripples of her face is just a hint of vulnerability.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I have my reasons,’ she cocks her head at him, and her neck has one too many joints. ‘Couldn’t have the House eating up the Archivist when we have </span>
  <em>
    <span>such </span>
  </em>
  <span>big plans for him.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Bullshit,’ Martin says. ‘Tell the truth.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air around them thickens, his ears buzzing. Helen’s eyes widen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘My, my, what </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>got into you?’ she asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin himself doesn’t know, feels a spike of fear chase down his spine. ‘Answer the question,’ he says, with less force. The static buzzes to almost nothing. ‘Please.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘The thing about opening that door, that one specific door,’ Helen says, her hair curling around her, rocketing through brilliant shades of blue and red. ‘Is that it made all </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>doors a lot less fun. When all the world’s a torture maze, well… it is entirely possible to have too much of a good thing. It’s all very monotonous.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You miss the world,’ Martin says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen snorts. ‘Sentimentality is not very high on my list of priorities.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘And yet,’ Martin says, with a shrewd smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘And yet,’ Helen echoes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A beat. They stare at each other, Martin thinking, Helen cycling through physical elongations and distortions. Then, ‘You need Jon to close the door,’ Martin says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘If he would be so kind,’ Helen says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Good. Then send me back to him,’ Martin says, straightening up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’m not entirely sure that’s a good idea,’ Helen says, mischief dancing through her voice. ‘I don’t know whether my tunnels will be good for you in this state -- or, for that matter, whether you will be good for </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span>.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I. Don’t. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Care</span>
  </em>
  <span>,’ says Martin, the air around him fizzing again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Well, if you’re sure,’ she says, with an extravagant shrug. ‘One baby archivist maze, coming right up. I can’t take you in there, unfortunately, I think I’ve burnt through all those openings. You’ll have to start from the beginning and get to him all by yourself.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I don’t suppose all the rooms will be where I left them, either,’ Martin says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen shakes her head far too cheerfully. She rubs her hands together, unnervingly long fingers glitching between feet and inches long as she does, then claps once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s putting on a show. He knows this. She knows he knows this. The ornate door that materialises in front of his very nose clearly knows this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Keep an eye out, you might run back into your friend, too. Now he’s released from the mirror, lord only knows where he’ll end up,’ she says. ‘If he puts you in grave peril, you won’t have dear old Helen’s favour to call in this time.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin smiles, a wry smile. His fingers curl around the first, and last, polaroid, securely tucked in his back pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’d like to see it try,’ he says, but nobody hears him. Helen has already gone, melting back into a door that was never fully there to begin with, fluid in her impossibility.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he doesn’t care, he wasn’t saying it for her anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Jon,’ he says, with conviction, as though guiding the door to where he needs it to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, polaroid in hand, he steps through the doorway, and all that is left behind is dust.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was just one of those things that lived in my brain until I wrote it. Hope you enjoyed ♥</p></blockquote></div></div>
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